Try to sleep on the bus.
Caleb
Yes sir.
I stare at the little heart longer than I should, then drag myself out of bed. Work awaits. Wiring doesn’t give a shit how much your chest aches for a man in another state.
By noonI’m in another stranger’s kitchen, crouched in front of an open panel, feeding cable through a wall that was not designed by anyone who liked electricians. My helper for the day, Benny, is on the other end, swearing under his breath as he tries to catch the fish tape.
“Lift it higher,” he grunts. “Pull back a little—no, not that much.”
“You say that like I’m psychic,cabrón,” I mutter, adjusting the angle. “You got it, or am I doing all the work again?”
“Got it!” he yells finally. “Pull!”
We work in the kind of comfortable silence that only comes after months of nearly zapping yourselves together. Sweat runs down my back, the smell of drywall dust and coffee hanging in the air. My brain keeps drifting back to the way Caleb said, “I love you,” like it was the easiest thing in the world.
On the way he fell asleep with my voice in his ear and my hoodie on his skin.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I wipe my hands on my jeans and check it.
Caleb
Look mountains…
He sends a picture of nothing but trees and rocks.
Caleb
Sitting in the last row with Martin, pray for me.
He snores.
Miguel
Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll suffocate and stop snoring. Text when you get back to your dorm, baby.
Caleb
I tuck the phone away and force myself to focus on the wires in front of me. Hot, neutral, and ground. Black, white,and green. Things that make sense if you respect them and treat them carefully.
Not like people.
They should’ve been backby now and no text. It’s three-thirty, I’m back at the condo, showered and in clean clothes, pacing my kitchen with my phone in my hand like a teenager waiting for a crush to text back.
Nothing.
No “California Sign” text.
No “back on campus” selfie.
No dumb complaining about the guy next to him hogging the armrest.
He probably fell asleep. Fully possible. Hell, hopeful.
I open our thread anyway. “Typing…” doesn’t appear.
“Stop being insane,” I mutter, dropping the phone on the counter like that’ll keep me from checking it. I grab leftovers out of the fridge, pop them into the microwave, and stare at them through the little window without seeing anything.
